Stitches in Time
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: A new birthday fic for Chelsie fan, in which Mr. Carson has a plan. Written in the same pre-canon universe as "Links in the Chain."


**A birthday fic for Chelsie fan, written in the same pre-canon world as "Links in the Chain." As usual, it's not necessary to have read that one in order to understand this one, but there are nods to it throughout this story.**

 **Wishing you all the very best on your birthday, my sweet friend. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **"Beyond the perception of differences**_

 _ **are the interwoven threads of love**_

 _ **that connect us all."**_

 _ **Harold Becker**_

 **OoOoOoO**

 _ **March, 1911**_

There had been no fighting the dreadful cold, wet, icy weather that winter. From the middle of December, when the temperatures had plunged low enough that the morning frost on the attic bedrooms' windows never fully melted during the day, winter had been a never-ending battle. Icy roads had meant much less travel throughout the holidays, meaning fewer guests at Downton, and everyone upstairs and down was becoming more irritable and anxious as the weeks wore on, tired of remaining cooped up indoors.

It was all Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes could do to get the staff gathered for the frigid walk to church one particularly cold Sunday morning, and the butler ended up regretting their enthusiasm and dedication to the worship of God as he listened to the ferocious wind whipping around outside, the sound of it nearly drowning out the Reverend's benediction.

"It'll be a miserable walk back," the housekeeper murmured from her seat beside him. "Nothing to be done about it, of course."

"Well, perhaps the exertion of hurrying will keep us all warm," he grumbled back as they stood.

One look to his face told her that he wasn't as grumpy as his voice made him sound. Still, she harbored a small hope that he might be correct.

Mrs. Hughes deftly folded her scarf as her companion was shaking hands with the local wine merchant, and she tucked it in expertly underneath the collar of her coat. They didn't dawdle today, but instead managed to gather the staff and quietly begin the procession back to the abbey. The wind was coming in short, powerful bursts, and a rather large gust of it made her fasten her topmost button … but not before the wind loosened the scarf.

"Oh!" she gasped, and she tucked herself back together as Mr. Carson's gaze landed upon her.

"All right, Mrs. Hughes?" he queried, and she smiled and gave a brief nod in the direction of the abbey, the top of which had just become visible at the crest of the hill before them.

"Yes, Mr. Carson. And I'll be even better in about five minutes."

His laugh was deep and jovial, the sound of it warming her in a way she dared not explore at all.

 **OoOoOoO**

In reality, it took eleven minutes to get back, and he didn't see her for two hours after their arrival - two hours during which Mr. Carson examined a small thought that had been niggling his mind since they left the church, to see it from all sides and come to what he determined to be a sensible plan of action. He'd have to be careful, of course: there was a fine line between being kind and being _too_ familiar, and he was loath to cross it. Just the very thought of doing so made him tremble on the inside.

He knew the _what,_ and something he'd spotted out the corner of his eye as they'd left the church had provided the _from where,_ despite the discomfort he knew the experience would provide him. It was the _when_ and the _how_ that were still tripping him up a bit, but no matter. Mr. Carson was a man of action once he came to a decision about something.

 _And she's your friend,_ he kept telling himself. He extracted his pocket watch and clicked it open, and a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips as he fingered the chain.

Mrs. Hughes's heels clicked on the floor as she walked by his pantry but she didn't stop in. Still, the sound of her footfalls was familiar to him after these past several years. It was comforting, something swift and sure that he could count on.

The sound broadened his smile and he nodded to himself, decided.

 **OoOoOoO**

Two weeks later, Mrs. Hughes arrived in her office to see a thin box resting on her desk. She turned, as if the giver of the gift would have lingered, but of course the sitting room was empty save for her.

 _No matter,_ she thought as she turned back to the package. The scent of his gentle cologne _had_ lingered, so there was no doubt in her mind as to who'd left it there.

 _But ... why?_ It wasn't her birthday. She'd not recently had some grand accomplishment.

Racking her brain, Mrs. Hughes tried to come up with any reason whatsoever for the gift before her. Perhaps she'd been wrong, that she was simply meant to pass it along to another?

She reached for the card, fingering the corner of the envelope; having been with him in town when he last purchased some, she instantly recognized the stationery as being that of the butler.

 _He wasn't simply delivering it for someone else, then._ She nearly laughed at her folly, as if there was anyone left in her life who'd send her a gift.

Sliding the note out, she was curious, and she couldn't deny that her mind was a flurry of wonder. The note explained little, however:

 _Returning a kindness, albeit quite belatedly._

 _C. Carson_

Her brow furrowed as she tried to sort what on earth he meant. She reached for the box and brushed her fingers over it. There was no wrapping except for the bow, a simple adornment for what she hoped would be a simple item. Not being one for long, drawn-out scenarios, she neatly lifted the lid and deposited it on her desktop, then pried open the thin tissue that covered the contents.

A scarf. A soft, lovely scarf, one that was delicate without fuss, not fancy or overdone … and, perhaps most significantly, one that bore a striking resemblance to the scarf she wore every time she left the abbey and ventured into the cold of winter.

Her eyes flooded with tears as one simple, pervading thought assaulted her senses:

 _How did he know?_

And then, just before the tears could escape, she reined them in, her answer staring her in the face, bold as brass and evident in the soft black yarn now flowing over her fingers: He clearly pays attention to the small things about _her_ just as much as she pays attention to all of the details that make up the essence of _him._

 **OoOoOoO**

It wasn't until much later that Mrs. Hughes was able to ask Mr. Carson about the gift. Shortly after having opened it, she had been inundated by one request after another, followed by a maid who'd suddenly fallen ill. The hours had flown by, but despite her exhaustion, she knew she'd not sleep until she addressed the topic.

Thankfully, he'd asked her to join him in sharing the leftover wine from the upstairs dinner, and she'd readily agreed.

They ended up sequestered in her sitting room at just past eleven, and she watched him as he poured them each a glass, mesmerized by the way the light from her hearth was reflected in the shine of his shoes and the edges of the decanter.

"Here we are," he said, his booming voice regulated to the softer tones he often used when it was just the two of them.

She took the proffered glass, and they clinked them together gently before sipping at the drink contained within.

"Very nice," she said approvingly, and he tilted his head in agreement.

A moment slipped by, and Mrs. Hughes gathered her wits about her and took a deep breath.

"About the scarf, Mr. Carson," she said.

His eyes widened slightly. "Do you not like it?"

She read all of his worry in a flash, pressing her hand to her chest and shaking her head to dispel it all in an instant. "No, it's not that at all," she clarified. "But … _why?_ "

 _Ah, here we are,_ he thought. _How to proceed tactfully …_

She watched as he moistened his lips and tightened his grip ever so slightly on the glass.

"I noticed recently that your other one needs a bit of mending," he said quietly. "I know you don't knit, but it's been such an awful winter that I didn't see how you could ever have it sent out and managed to do without it."

"And so you purchased me a new one?"

His mouth clamped shut, and he was fearful in that moment that he had, indeed, grossly overstepped the boundary between them.

But then she laughed a bit, a small, almost harsh sound coming through her lips. "A 'bit of mending,' indeed," she murmured. "It's no wonder, Mr. Carson. That scarf is thirty years old."

"Is it?"

She nodded, her mind suddenly floating through memories of a farm house in Argyll. "It's quite a trick to keep everything just so, in order that the torn bits remain tucked away."

He wondered, for some reason he couldn't begin to fathom, if she had perhaps not just been referring to the scarf, but he recovered quickly from _that_ particular thought, and Mrs. Hughes smiled as his prodigious eyebrows flicked upward.

"But then why haven't you -" And then, in an instant, it dawned on him … why this woman who always prided herself on maintaining a neat, tidy appearance might still use something that was so very clearly on the verge of falling apart. "It was your mother's, wasn't it?" His voice came as a murmur, one that did nothing to hide the tenderness of the words.

She nodded, forcing herself to continue focusing on his face as opposed to hiding her feelings behind a glass of Bordeaux.

"It was. She made it, of course. We didn't have much growing up, and she was very skilled with all sorts of yarn work. One had to be, isolated as we were. It is a talent which, as you noted, I did not inherit."

He hummed, contemplative.

"Wherever did you find one so similar?" The question had been burning in her mind ever since she'd pushed the delicate tissue aside.

"Ah." He swallowed. "I had it made," he blurted out. "The widow Landry."

Now it was Mrs. Hughes's eyes that grew wide. "From the lane by the church?"

"The same," he said, grateful for her tact. The widow had often been a source of consternation for him in the past, peddling her wares loudly as they passed to and from both the church and the hospital, but there was a kindness in the woman's eyes that struck anyone who cared to look at her properly; _he_ finally looked two Tuesdays ago. "Did you know she has two young children not even in school?"

"I did," Mrs. Hughes replied. "But you'll have to forgive me, Mr. Carson, for I wasn't aware that _you_ knew that. You always seemed rather repulsed by her."

"That is a horribly harsh word, Mrs. Hughes," he said, although there was some small truth to it that embarrassed him. "I've never begrudged her efforts to feed her family, merely the loud way in which she would do so."

"I noticed she's moved a bit farther down the lane this week," Mrs. Hughes commented. "That's not to do with you, now, is it?"

But Mr. Carson shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Anyhow, to answer your question, I gave her a general description of what I wanted, and in two days' time she came up with it."

"You're a very thoughtful man, Mr. Carson." Her voice was gentle. "It's quite remarkable that you'd overcome your unease to approach a woman like Mrs. Landry, as opposed to poking around in a shoppe in the village proper." _That you'd do that for **me** , _she almost added, but she stopped just before saying the words.

Mrs. Hughes, realizing that she perhaps ought to be looking _anywhere_ instead of deep into his eyes, quickly averted her gaze so that she was examining his brow, the creases by his mouth, and the dimple in his chin. She felt, in one way, as though she were seeing some part of him for the very first time tonight. He _was_ a thoughtful man, a _formidable_ man, and she had no doubt in her heart that he'd managed to treat Mrs. Landry with the utmost respect.

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat and slightly uncomfortable under the power of her gaze. "Well, I thought it might mean something … _more,_ perhaps, coming from her." There, he'd said it, admitted that it wasn't only the kindness of the scarf itself, but the act of caring that went into it all. "To you. You're somewhat a champion of the underdog, I realize. Both within these walls and far beyond them."

She thought on that for a moment, unsure of what to say before finally settling on, "Thank you."

"You don't need to wear it," he said suddenly, confusing her until he vocalized the rest of his thoughts. "I didn't realize … well. About the other one."

She watched as his cheeks grew red with discomfort.

"It's all right, Mr. Carson," she soothed, and she sipped at her almost-forgotten wine, allowing its soothing warmth to fortify her. "I shall wear it, indeed."

"But the other one is so dear," he argued gently, raising a hand in protest. "I'll not be offended."

Mrs. Hughes drained her glass. She held it in her lap, her fingers twisting the stem so that the firelight which had entranced her earlier now bounced off the cut crystal of the small goblet. "This one will be, too, Mr. Carson ... for the thought that went into its procurement."

Mr. Carson finished his own wine, then placed both their glasses on the small tray.

"You're my best friend, you know," she added in a whisper.

"Surely not," he replied, his face sweet and kind and not pitying or sad or any of the other things she feared she'd find there.

"It's true. Oh, there's Mrs. Patmore, of course. But no one else truly _understands_ me, you see." She paused, the words coming in small fits, the effort to speak them clearly costing her a great deal. "And I think you do. At least in part." She smiled, unable to say precisely what she'd wanted to, but figuring it was good enough regardless.

"It's late," he said, his voice once again all business. "And tomorrow is a busy day."

Mrs. Hughes rose from her seat. "They're all busy days, Mr. Carson." She smiled brilliantly at him. "But I'll be warmer."

Her smile was infectious, and his eyes twinkled with happiness.

"I'm glad, Mrs. Hughes. Very glad for _that,_ indeed."

* * *

 **As always, I'd love a wee review to know what you thought. xxx**


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